


Not Doom But Law

by aus_der_traum



Category: Historical RPF, Third Reich - Fandom, World War II - Fandom
Genre: Gun Kink, Mock Execution, Nazisploitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aus_der_traum/pseuds/aus_der_traum
Summary: Death claims all things. To perish is not doom, but law.Amon Göth is waiting for his execution.





	Not Doom But Law

They will hang him, he knows it. They will give him a criminal’s death, not a soldier’s, they won’t waste a bullet on him but put a noose around his neck, and while he should be outraged over the insult, it’s somewhat of a solace sometimes.

It’s this knowledge that helps him get through all the times they come for him, late at night or in the early morning, when some foolish, fearful part of him thinks that this time they’re finally going to kill him. Every time they put a hood over his head and take him outside, a part of him forgets about logic, a part of him that wants to believe this is the end. It takes all of his willpower to hang on to reason, repeat over and over what he rationally knows to be true: “They are going to hang me, not shoot me in a ditch. They are going to hang me, in front of an audience, that’s how their justice works. They are going to hang me.”

There is a strange sort of comfort in this certainty.

But men aren’t merely beings of reason, underneath that thin layer of civilisation, that flimsy pretence of humanity they are only cattle. You just have to strip that away – and you can peel it off with ease, it doesn’t take much, you can take Amon’s word for it – and you see them for what they really are, sheep, game, targets to hit with a rifle.

He knows all about that, and it does not help. Not now. Not ever.

One time they tie him to a pole, and he can hear their boots as they’re getting into position, he can feel them taking aim. That’s it, he thinks, even though he should know better. For that one moment he’s convinced he’s done for.

Another time they drag him to a doctor’s office, to measure his height. They used to shoot people in the back of the neck like that, through a hole in the measuring device. He waits for it, waits for it until suspicion has grown into certainty, but the shot doesn’t come.

In the end they only note down a number and let him go. Maybe they were really just taking his height and weight for the hanging. 

If he’s lucky, he’ll get a long drop, he thinks. A thought to keep close and cherish. A quick death, what more can he wish for, really? 

He’s weak with relief though when they bring him back to his cell.

Occasionally it is almost intimate, the way they shove him to his knees, outside, into the dirt, and that’s when he’s most convinced they are going to do it now. Bloodlust is hard to control. He can tell that from own experience.

Someone pulls off the hood, knees him in the back to push him further down. His face is squeezed into the mud, a heavy boot is put on the nape of his neck, pinning him in place.

One of them says something in Polish that sounds like an insult and then there’s laughter.

His captor kneels down on his back and a gun barrel replaces the foot in his neck.

“Na, du Nazisau, how does it feel to be on the receiving end for once?” The man speaks with an accent but the German is quite good. It looks like they learned a lot from us, Amon thinks.

The gun presses harder against the base of his skull. Any moment now. Amon braces himself for the impact. At least they won’t botch it at this distance. It will be over in a couple of seconds.

He imagines the bullet to tear through the fragile bones, the splatter of blood and brain matter in the mud. It used to be German soil. Not anymore.

But his captor doesn’t pull the trigger, not yet. He rolls him around, onto his back, drags the gun along the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, over his bottom lip.

“Open up, little piggy,” his captor says. His eyes are glittering in the sparse light. The power rush must be wonderful, there’s nothing more exhilarating than claiming a life, even if it’s only a sheep’s. But to put down a wolf, Amon can only imagine the sensation, and perhaps, deep down, beneath the flutter of panic he’s a bit jealous of it.

The gun barrel is pushed into his mouth, roughly. There’s no need to be careful with him, not now when his expiration date is so close. Why worry about some chipped or broken teeth? This is all he is good for now, taking the wrath of the victors.

Amon isn’t surprised when the shot isn’t fired and his head doesn’t burst like a ripe melon. Power over life and death is something to be relished and why not have him suck at the barrel of the gun, promise him a reprieve if he does, pretending he can earn back the right to live. Mercy… mercy can also mean to end the suffering though, deliver someone from the evil of this world. Not everyone is meant to survive. Only the strongest, the fittest, and not even them… how many of them were torn to shreds and bleed out in a ditch somewhere?

The world should have drowned in this flood of blood.

Amon isn’t just wolf, he is part sheep too and he sucks at that gun as if his life depended on it, as if it could be appeased into spilling come not firing bullets, if only he tried hard enough.

Maybe he does cry eventually, sheds some desperate Nazi tears over all the misery, or maybe it’s just the urine he’s drenched in, because his captors decide that the appropriate finale of their little show is not to shoot him in the head but pissing on his face.

And yes, they will hang him in the end. That much is certain.

_

**Author's Note:**

> For more nazi fic curated by the Baldur von Schirach Society for Poetic Souls (BvSSfPS) go to [aus-der-traum.tumblr.com](https://aus-der-traum.tumblr.com)


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